The sun sets below the beacon,
the treaclejars are in flight. Far below ......in the Buxted
treacle mines (the 'workings' stretch to Jarvis Brook, Steel
Cross and beyond, even as far as the mountains in the Lake District)
the jarring cries of the treaclejars and the slap of their wings
signals that it is night.

The houses, one by one, switch
off, their windows become dark and only he street lights throw
dark shadows across the slumbering buildings huddled round the
entrance to the treacle mine. A train leaves the station in the
Brook and the chasing treaclejars, hawking the files and moths
attracted by the carriage lights, follow the steaming train as
it disappears into the tunnel. It is time for the 'treacleman'
to go to work.

Treacleman Tate only works
at night. He takes his trained treaclejar down into the mine
and realeases it. The bird flies as fast as a swallow, following
the galleries through the treacle mine. It homes in on a sticky
seam of sweet sorghum (treacle rock) which is full of rich pickings
for the Treacleman. The bird settles and licks the sticky rock
and lets out its jarring call; Treaceman Tate is on his way.

He listens for the tell tale
crack of the birds wings, which beat across its back each time
it savours a sweet lump of treacle. The treacleman closes in
and marks the area that his treacle tracking treaclejar has located.
By the moring the seam will have neen pegged out ready for the
early-shift.